


Was a Long and Dark December

by vardas



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vardas/pseuds/vardas
Summary: Kagome's sick.  Inuyasha confronts just what that might mean, while Miroku comes to a different understanding.





	Was a Long and Dark December

Was a long and dark December,  
From the rooftops I remember  
There was snow, White snow.

Clearly I remember,  
From the windows they were watching  
While we froze, Down below.

     

 

He can hear her coughing from across the camp, though she struggles to muffle the sound behind her palm. He’s fought for her – will die for her when the moment comes, and thank whatever deity that deigned to hear a hanyou’s prayers that he has the opportunity. He’s bled himself nearly dry for her sake, bones shattered and spirit all but broken, because he loves her. Somewhere along their journey, in one battle or another, he’s come to the quiet realization that he will never watch her die; that they will have to kill him before they get to her. There’s a cruel comfort in that. But he’s watching now, and though she tries to hide her weakness, his keen senses have charted the progress of her illness with rising alarm. 

They’re so far from Kaede’s village, from the well and the astonishing medicines of Kagome’s time; he’s nearly panting now, heart hammering in his chest so hard he’s surprised no one else seems to hear. Miroku and Sango are little better, and to push them would only make their condition worse. Though Kagome is his first priority, the monk and the slayer have slowly made themselves a part of his pack, his family; the thought of risking them is scarcely more palatable than the danger to Kagome if he stays.

The snow continues to fall, blanketing the clearing in white; irritably, he flicks away the few flakes that land on Kagome’s sleeping bag. He hates it. Even the memory of Kagome’s laughter as she pelted him with snowballs only days ago is tainted now as her skin burns beneath his hands. His mother died in winter. He remembers the sound of it, the ominous rattle deep in her lungs, and he’s begun to hear the same rasping hitches in Kagome’s breathing. He remembers the blood that covered his hands as he knelt beside her grave, his claws broken and torn away from his struggles with the frozen earth. Most of all he remembers the village, the rooftops covered in white; their faces pink with warmth as they peered out at him. He can still hear their voices, and beneath the fur on his right ear is one of his few scars. “Begone, demon spawn!” The monk’s sutra had stuck for a moment before he pulled it free, and the mark it left behind was smooth and shiny like a burn, the spot oddly devoid of sensation. Still, he’d held his ground a moment more, pleading for his mother’s sake, before a well-aimed stone broke the skin above his eyebrow and the blood pouring down his face blinded him.

A night’s diligent scouting has been rewarded with the discovery of a suitable village a half day’s journey from here. This time he will not be refused. He will raze the village to the ground if he must; and though he winces as he imagines Kagome’s anger, the decision is already made. Quickly he packs up what little supplies they carry with them, until Kagome lies marooned on her own little island in a sea of white. Miroku and Sango blink dazedly at him as he urges them onto Kirara’s willing back; the feline’s footsteps pad silently in his wake as he gathers Kagome in his arms. She stirs, but only enough to nuzzle sleepily at his throat, and he startles a little as her cold nose touches his neck. Even Shippo is silent, his fluffy tail curled around him as he balances on the neko’s shoulders, keeping a worried eye on his companions. The cat launches herself into flight so smoothly that her passengers are scarcely aware they’ve become airborne; beneath her Inuyasha is racing toward the village, taking care not to jostle his own precious burden.

By the time they reach their destination, Miroku is awake. Warmed by the firecat’s body and well-rested despite the frantic flight, he seems fully alert for the first time in days. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but his violet gaze is disturbingly perceptive as Inuyasha begins to issue orders to the neko. She is to wait with the others while he goes alone to the village. If there is a fight – and he suspects there must be – he does not want them in harm’s way.

“Inuyasha, I would go with you to the village,” Miroku interrupts.

Shippo offers the monk a hopeful look. He’s made his dissatisfaction with Inuyasha’s plans readily apparent, and been brushed aside. Inuyasha has reservations of his own. Despite what the kit might believe, he does not make a habit of ransacking human settlements; and though he is more than capable of setting aside his own code of honor in favor of Kagome’s health, this could easily become a massacre. Inuyasha sets his jaw. He can live with that, if he has to. Knowing he sat idle while Kagome died . . . that would be the end of him.

“If it comes to a fight, you’ll just be in the way.”

“Surely they would not refuse medicine and lodging to travelers in need?” Miroku is accustomed to being the group’s voice of reason. From his perch between Kirara’s ears, Shippo is nodding in vigorous agreement.

The hanyou’s laugh is harsh. Perhaps Miroku’s naiveté is only to be expected. Even in these times, the monk’s spiritual powers make him a welcome guest in all but the harshest company. Shippo, too, has a somewhat skewed view of mortals. That is partially his own fault, the hanyou reflects; between his menacing presence and Kagome’s shielding warmth, Shippo has been spared the slights he might otherwise have suffered. The kit knows nothing of human cruelty, nothing of pain. Inuyasha is intimately familiar with both.

“I’m a half-breed,” he states. He offers nothing further; in his experience, that simple observation would more than answer the monk’s question. Miroku raises his brows inquiringly, and Inuyasha elaborates. “Yeah. They would.”

Miroku only sighs. He wishes that everyone saw Inuyasha the way he’s learned to; has, on more than one occasion, protested a slight that Inuyasha would have let go unremarked. It rankled, to know that not so very long ago, he too would have been disturbed by the hanyou’s presence. Still, he was a quick study. He’d joined them initially out of desperation – he’d been getting nowhere on his own, and he admitted to a certain curiosity. Certainly the rough-and-tumble half-demon was an odd traveling companion for a miko, even one as ill-trained as Kagome. And they bickered like children. The first time he’d watched them argue, he’d held his breath, waiting for Inuyasha to resort to claws instead of words. It didn’t happen. Miroku was intrigued. With a last frustrated growl, the hanyou relented – and Miroku was fascinated. It went against every stricture he’d ever been taught; the holy do not associate with the hellish. Yet Inuyasha watched over Kagome with all the flustered bewilderment of any teenage boy, interposing his own body between her and danger, taking upon himself wounds that would certainly have killed her.

In the villages they visited, Inuyasha made no attempt to be unobtrusive, pricked ears and bared fangs boldly declaring his youkai parentage. Spoiling for a fight, Miroku had thought then, aware of a slight sense of disappointment. Yet Inuyasha had not responded to any of the whispers or sneering taunts. Mostly he seemed to ignore them, save for the occasional flinch when a particularly pointed barb struck home. As long as the villagers kept their distance, so would he. He would not hide what he was, but neither would he retaliate against the increasingly hurtful words. Miroku admired his control, while privately musing over its origins.

With Sango’s arrival came more changes in Inuyasha’s demeanor. Miroku was continually astonished by the hanyou’s adaptability. If anyone had asked, Miroku would have confessed to having some reservations about Sango’s loyalty, all lecherous thoughts aside. He’d expected Inuyasha to feel the same. Instead the hanyou had taken to the slayer with surprising speed considering her former career, to all evidence quite pleased to have another capable fighter joining them. Sango rewarded that acceptance with utter loyalty, never more apparent than when Goshinki had shattered the Tetsusaiga and set Inuyasha’s inner demon free. She’d been the first to state her own resolution to stay, though not the last. And it was Sango’s serenity in the face of Inuyasha’s anger that at last offered Miroku his most valuable insight.

“You’re not frightened of him, like this?” Miroku asked, using the question as an excuse to edge closer to the slayer.

“Of course not.” She continued to polish her massive weapon as the monk’s hand crept closer to her delectable behind.

“Many people would be.” He had been, those first days.

“Those people aren’t—“ She broke off as his hand made contact, followed in short succession by her own palm to his face. “Aren’t demon slayers,” she finished, and rose gracefully to her feet.

Miroku’s cheek smarted from the blow, but now that his attempt at lechery had again gone awry, he paid more attention to the conversation. “While I have every confidence in your abilities, Sango, Inuyasha’s strength has been proven many times over. You would stand no chance against him in battle.”

“That isn’t what I meant. Being a demon slayer isn’t just killing, houshi.” Like Inuyasha, Sango often resorts to using his title – rather than his name – when she is annoyed with him, though her term is infinitely more respectful than the hanyou’s.

“It’s also about understanding the demons we fight alongside, like Kirara. Inuyasha may be half human, but I would guess that he’s spent next to no time around people who weren’t trying to kill him. He’s rude, because it’s simpler to be deliberately rude than to try to say the right thing and be misunderstood. He . . doesn’t understand people. I’m sure he gets a lot from our body language and scent, but not what we say. If you really want to understand him, houshi, listen to his eyes – not his voice.”

And because Miroku is listening now, he sees the self-disgust as Inuyasha refers to himself as a half-breed. In many ways the half-demon’s attitude toward mortals remains a puzzle to him – probably because Inuyasha doesn’t entirely understand it himself. Inuyasha’s demon blood is certainly responsible for his survival, but it has also made him an outcast, adrift on an island with no land in sight. Since battling Goshinki, Inuyasha seems to have given up on becoming full demon. Still, his behavior toward humans has hardly softened. He swears at their uselessness, derides their physical weakness, sneers at their softer emotions, even as he draws his sword in their defense. The very fragility that he rails against is the thing that makes him different. Humans weep, and bleed, and break. Inuyasha bleeds too, copiously and with disturbing frequency. But he doesn’t break.

Miroku doesn’t attempt to address the deeper issues lurking behind the hanyou’s casually offered explanation. He suspects Kagome is the only who has ever come close to touching those old scars; she knows the heart of him, her silver-haired protector, as no one else does. Miroku has already realized that he has no chance of dissuading Inuyasha from this madness. He looks at Sango, lying so still against Kirara’s fur, and admits he doesn’t want to try.

“Let me come with you, Inuyasha. You have my word that I won’t interfere if it comes down to bloodshed, but at least let me talk to them.”

Inuyasha hesitates, and Miroku takes advantage of the momentary weakness. “The longer we debate this, the longer they suffer out here in the cold.” The monk’s heart is in his eyes, and his tone softens. “I love them, too, Inuyasha.”

The half-demon’s gaze lingers on Sango, and he nods. “Alright. Shippo, stay with them.”

Shippo looks worriedly at Miroku, and his shoulders slump. One tiny hand brushes Kagome’s cheek, so small even against her delicate features. The unexpected heat emanating from her skin alarms him.

“Sorry, Kagome,” Shippo whispers. His mother died when he was a baby. He remembers her scent, sometimes, and the warmth of her fur as he snuggled close, but he doesn’t miss her. It was easy to love Kagome, because the only thing she replaced was a void. It took longer to understand that needing Inuyasha didn’t mean giving up his father. Now he watches Inuyasha’s ears droop as Kagome struggles to breathe; and with a wisdom belied by the still baby-ish contours of his face, recognizes that if Kagome dies, Inuyasha won’t be far behind. And no matter what Kagome wants, he can’t lose another family.

The fox kit exchanges a long look with Kirara, her soft, thick fur sheltering the two women from the bitter cold. And finally, now that Inuyasha and Miroku are gone, Shippo lets the first tears fall.

“Please hurry, Inuyasha,” he whispers.

Only halfway there, still just beyond sight of the village, Miroku leans on a large tree to catch his breath. The slight vibration of the trunk is his only warning before Inuyasha lands beside him, absorbing the shock of the landing with ease, and Miroku allows himself a moment of wistful envy. The fingers of his free hand toy with the beads that cover the windtunnel. The kazaana, his sutras – they mark him for what he is: a monk of not insignificant power, descended from a line of them; and Miroku has pride in that. He does not fool himself that he is the half-demon’s equal in battle, of course. No curse can compare to the royal blood running in Inuyasha’s veins. But neither is he weak, a child to be protected; and deliberately he straightens as the hanyou looks back at him.

Miroku’s always been strong; it was his only hope of defeating Naraku. And though he knows it’s foolish, relying on Inuyasha’s strength to see him through still feels like admitting he isn’t good enough on his own. And then Inuyasha’s head turns back toward Kagome, and the low whine of distress emanating from the dog-demon’s throat is sufficient reminder that Inuyasha has weaknesses, too.

After a moment Inuyasha deliberately raises his head to scent the air. “The village is that way. Come on, houshi. It’s close.” He doesn’t look back to see if Miroku is following, but his steps are shorter now, and more forceful. Though it’s strange indeed to see the tracks of what looks like a bare human foot in the snow, Inuyasha’s purpose becomes immediately obvious – stepping into each tightly packed imprint saves Miroku valuable energy. And since Inuyasha’s nose is quite keen enough to find the village without benefit of sight, their brief pause to “scout” was purely for Miroku’s benefit as well. Safely behind the hanyou’s back, Miroku smiles.  
Even with his companion’s consideration, Miroku is exhausted by the time they reach the village gates. Inuyasha’s appearance raises a familiar alarm; though ordinarily he withstands the disturbance with admirable calm, Kagome’s illness has worn at his patience.

“You realize, of course, that Kagome would be most unhappy if some misfortune were to befall this village.” Miroku’s casual reminder does not go unnoticed by the guards on the wall. Their reaction, in turn, elicits only a jaded sneer from the hanyou.

Inuyasha nearly snaps back. “Do you think she’d prefer some other village, baka?” he thinks, but he resists the urge to say it. He understands the monk’s point, and would not dispute the validity of his claim. Still, it is no more than he expected. She was never going to think of him as her hero forever.

“As long as she’s alive to bitch about it,” he says grimly, and Miroku has no answer to that. Fortunately, he isn’t given time to worry. The priest who comes to greet them is old and powerful, his attendants armed to the teeth and inclined to fidget. Miroku’s respectful bow is cut short as his vision grays out; Inuyasha neatly snags the back of his robes and pulls him upright again.

“Thank you, Inuyasha,” Miroku says with great dignity, ignoring the less than gracious snort of reply. “Revered Elder of this village, we seek sanctuary from the coming storm. We have others traveling with us who are very ill and in need of care. Have you a healer here?”

“Yes, of course.” The elder frowns at the half-demon, who bares his teeth in feral challenge. “Are these . . companions of yours human, monk?”

“They are human, Elder,” Miroku replies hastily. Inuyasha’s defensive posturing is setting off the guards; a single misstep now will no doubt lead to bloodshed. “Kagome is a miko, and Sango is a demon-slayer. An orphaned fox kit, and Sango’s nekomata helper also accompany us.”

The priest frowns, brows furrowed in silent deliberation. Compassion wages war with caution, the battle written plainly across his face, and he gives no immediate verdict. Beside him, Miroku can feel Inuyasha’s youki surge as his impatience grows. The elder’s eyes widen, and Miroku knows he feels it too, dancing across his skin in subtle warning of the coming storm.

“You may bring your companions here, and I will pass judgment when they are before me,” the old man pronounces.

Inuyasha bristles. “Who the hell do you think you are? Judgment.” His lip curls, revealing ivory fangs; the village falling silent around them as the hanyou’s voice rises. “I know about your judgment, old man, and fuck you if you think for one minute—”

“Inuyasha, enough.” Miroku’s balance is unsteady yet, and what he means to be a warning nudge sends him staggering into the dog demon. Inuyasha doesn’t budge an inch; Miroku’s aching body protests the contact with what feels like granite. Still, Inuyasha’s doing an commendable job of keeping him upright, so it would be churlish to complain.

“Bring them here,” the Elder repeats, tone softening so it sounds more like a request than a command. Miroku silently applauds his survival instincts.

Inuyasha’s ears are laid back, a sure sign that he doesn’t like what he’s hearing. Still, he doesn’t protest again. “Cover your ears,” he warns, waiting only for Miroku’s compliance before giving a piercing whistle. It doesn’t take long for Kirara to respond to Inuyasha’s summons – or perhaps Miroku simply blacks out again. He’s still on his feet when he opens his eyes, but he’s leaning his whole weight against Inuyasha, so that doesn’t really mean anything. Inuyasha would never let him fall. 

The hanyou eyes him consideringly when the firecat lands; Miroku gamely locks his knees and waves away the concern. He can sense Inuyasha’s impatience, tightly leashed, and smiles a little. Kagome has doubted her protector’s devotion, but never his love. This moment is proof enough that she has both. Inuyasha’s whole expression softens as he lifts her into his arms, and even semi-conscious she reaches for his ear, tracing her fingertip lightly over the edge. She murmurs his name, and her body relaxes, utterly secure in his presence.

The priest’s servants are inspecting Sango with curiosity and care, but there’s nothing inappropriate in their manner, and Miroku remains silent. At a word from their master, the largest man picks her up carefully. Shippo tumbles to the ground as Kirara returns to kitten form with a burst of flame, landing nearly at the priest’s feet. Carefully they study each other, the old man and the fox kit, before coming to some unspoken agreement.

“The women and the small demons are no threat to this village, and may remain. You are of course welcome here, as well, but I cannot allow the half-demon entrance.”

It takes Miroku several seconds to process the priest’s words, for which he blames his illness. Certainly Inuyasha understands easily enough. A low growl rumbles in his throat, and in his arms Kagome stirs restlessly.

“I am sorry,” the old man says, and Miroku thinks it might nearly be true. “But you are clearly a demon capable of great violence; it is simply your nature. I cannot condone your presence here, and ask that you leave the girl here in our capable hands until she has recovered.”

The priest’s attendant reaches out for Kagome, and reluctantly Inuyasha lets him take her. The growl is louder now, seemingly beyond his ability to control, and his ears flatten to his skull. Miroku is already plotting out how best to smuggle Inuyasha into the hut with them, when Kagome starts to fight against the man holding her.

“Inuyasha,” she whimpers, a plea made in some nightmare-ish fever dream. With no response forthcoming, she struggles harder. It’s heartbreaking to watch, her cries becoming more frantic as her erstwhile captor turns to take her inside.

“I can’t,” Inuyasha says abruptly, taking one long step toward her before the priest’s outstretched arm blocks his path. This is the moment then, Miroku thinks. This is the moment when his soul is damned forever, because Inuyasha is going to rip that priest’s arm off and beat him to death with it, and Miroku isn’t going to do one damn thing to stop him.

Inuyasha’s eyes never waver from Kagome as he asks, “What’s your strongest sutra, monk?”

Miroku raises one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. At this moment, his disdain for his brethren’s short-sightedness is all consuming; and still, something in Inuyasha’s voice sends a shiver down his spine. “It is not purely strength that matters, Inuyasha. Intent is equally important in the choosing of a proper spell.” Why are they discussing this now? Inuyasha should be drawing that sword of his and systematically slicing people in half at this point. And though Miroku is a peaceful man by creed if not by nature, watching this is enough to make him wish for a demon sword of his own.

“For sealing a demon,” his companion says gruffly, and Miroku’s brow furrows in puzzlement. Still, he asks no questions, merely fans out a handful of the charms for the hanyou’s inspection.

Inuyasha brushes the tips of his claws over them, but the sutras remain dormant in the monk’s grasp. Inuyasha scowls. “Make ‘em work, bouzu.”

He still doesn’t understand what Inuyasha’s trying to prove, and that frisson of awareness dances at the nape of his neck again. But he doesn’t refuse. There is nothing he would refuse Inuyasha now, not in front of these people; not with the taste of unjust prejudice still bitter on his tongue. Only later will he realize that is precisely what Inuyasha’s counting on, this lonely outsider who understands the nature of trust and loyalty better than any of them. The sutras glow as Miroku pushes more power into them, turning mere paper and ink into weapons every bit as deadly as Inuyasha’s claws.

It happens in an instant. It’s been so long since those stunning reflexes were turned against him that Miroku has nearly forgotten how incredibly fast the half-demon is. The charm sparks and sizzles as Inuyasha snatches it out of the monk’s hand, wrapping it snugly around his left wrist. In that first frozen second before he reacts, Miroku imagines he can smell burning flesh, and has never in his life wished so desperately he were someone – something – other than what he is.

“Inuyasha!” Miroku has the presence of mind to grab for Inuyasha as he crumples. But his own strength is gone, and when his knees buckle they both go sprawling in the dirt. Beside him Inuyasha is letting out little whimpers that are somehow harder to hear than a scream. When he reaches for the sutra, Inuyasha is still aware enough through the pain to jerk away. The sight of Inuyasha’s powerful claws rapidly shrinking into human fingernails is startling enough that Miroku lets him. He knows, of course, that the hanyou endures this transformation beneath each new moon, but he’s never actually seen. Now he’s so close that their noses nearly touch, close enough to watch the darker color of Inuyasha’s human eyes overtake the gold; and the image in his head is of Naraku’s miasma slowly spreading until it blots out the sun. Miroku thinks he understands Sesshomaru too, for the first time. Watching this pride, this power fade into mortal flesh and bone is a kind of living death.

And then it’s over, Inuyasha lying still beside him for a long moment before slowly climbing to his feet. Even in human form, Inuyasha seems to recover quickly – or perhaps he only hides the pain better than most.

“Human enough for you now?” he snarls at the priest. He sweeps Kagome out of the attendant’s arms, her struggles immediately ceasing at his touch, and disappears into the hut.

The old priest reaches forward to help Miroku to his feet; even weak as he is, Miroku jerks away and staggers upright again without assistance. He feels tainted, somehow, as though his entire system of belief has been based upon a fallacy.

“He’s a better man than you or I,” Miroku says quietly. “But all you see are the fangs and claws and you think that justifies how you treat him. You have no idea how wrong you are.”

“He is a hanyou,” the priest says carefully.

“He could have razed this village to the ground.” It’s no answer, but it’s all Miroku has. “He chose not to – because he thought you deserved the chance. Don’t make him believe that was a mistake. It will cost him, if you force him to kill. But there is nothing he won’t do to protect her. Even from himself.”

The old man is still staring after him as Miroku limps toward the hut Inuyasha has obviously claimed as theirs for the duration. The half-demon has already made a comfortable bed for Kagome near the fire; Sango is still being examined by the village’s healer, who continues to steal vaguely scandalized glances in his direction. Inuyasha is sitting with his back against the wall, crossed arms resting on his bent knees, head tilted back and eyes closed. Miroku observes the uncharacteristic posture for a long moment in silence; even discounting the outward changes in appearance, the pose itself is oddly humanizing.

“You people have such piss-poor senses, it don’t do any good to keep watch. What the hell are you gonna watch for? You won’t see it until it’s chewing off your toes, and the fuck good is it gonna do you then?” The half-demon sounds more weary than genuinely disgruntled.

Miroku considers that, dropping down next to Inuyasha and propping his staff against his shoulder with a sigh. “We have very sensitive toes,” he offers at last, drawing a reluctant laugh from his companion.

“If that’s all you got goin’ for you, it’s not just unlikely that you take over the world in Kagome’s time; it’s a fucking miracle.”

“And yet, we obviously succeed, as you yourself have seen,” Miroku feels compelled to point out.

“Breed like rabbits,” Inuyasha complains. Miroku opens his mouth to protest, remembers his own distinct interest in the act of procreation, and thinks better of it. It isn’t what he’s come to say, anyway.

“You used me.” Miroku’s voice is calm, less accusation than simple statement.

Inuyasha nods. “Yeah.”

It’s not an apology. Miroku never expected one. The tension in Inuyasha’s shoulders is penance enough for him; it suffices to know that the betrayal, though minor, is regretted. Inuyasha’s eyes are hooded, and he flinches a little every time Kagome coughs. Not mere unfamiliarity, then – for Miroku’s never known the hanyou to display any hint of sickness or infection – but actual fear. The monk surfaces from his introspections to find Inuyasha’s gaze on him.

“My mother died in winter,” Inuyasha says simply, starkly. It’s explanation enough. Miroku only nods. The adrenaline is wearing off, and the cold is creeping in again, icy fingers slowly squeezing the breath from his lungs. Even without his superior senses, Inuyasha notices the shortness of each inhalation, the periodic shivers that shake the monk’s frame. The silent reminder of his friend’s condition is nearly justification enough for the risks he’s run. Miroku is soon a softly snoring weight against his left side, the healer’s herbs offering the first glimmer of relief for the girls. Long after the others sleep, Inuyasha stares into the flames, legs crossed beneath him, chin propped in his hands, and waits.

He’s still there when Miroku wakes before dawn, though he rises quickly as Miroku begins to stir. Not in discomfort at the monk’s proximity – that’s a battle they’ve won – but the forced inactivity has worn. Inuyasha paces, curses, never pauses. Stillness is death, his demon half whispers, and a childhood endured alone and afraid pronounces it truth. The movement is disturbing the healer’s guards, and though Miroku has long accused him of a decided lack of tact, Inuyasha knows better than to push. With a frustrated huff he stomps out into the snow. His toes go numb almost immediately, and silently he rails at the fragility of his human body. Still, he’s endured worse in this form, and the transformation back to his hanyou self will see any wounds swiftly healed. The Tetsaiga is an extra weight at his hip, and his stride is different enough in this body that the length of the blade is awkward. A tree near the hut offers familiar sanctuary; he scrambles up into the branches with ease, choosing his perch and settling against the trunk with a sigh. Hours pass.

He isn’t shivering when Miroku climbs gingerly off Kirara’s back and eases onto the branch next to him. He passed that point not long after sunrise, about the time he lost feeling in his fingers. He makes a fist slowly, making sure he hasn’t completely lost function along with sensation, and it’s strange not to feel the prick of his claws on his palm. Pain radiates from his extremities, but Inuyasha is accustomed to suffering. He’s rarely known anything else. It doesn’t matter anyway. The afternoon sun is melting a bit of the snow, and now that Miroku’s here, he’ll have to go back inside. 

It’s telling, perhaps, that he would rather endure the bitter temperatures than the confinement of a human dwelling. Inuyasha’s never been in human form voluntarily before; his whole body feels like a trap, and the closed in space of walls and roof and door had simply been too much. Miroku hasn’t spoken yet; and that’s a relief too, all these humans who lie with their words and their smiles and hide the blade’s edge behind their backs. Yet they are soft, so deliberately delicate, feelings at war with function; so unlike demons, whose sly ferocity conceals only emptiness underneath. Inuyasha has considered himself both, when he’s bothered to think of it, his father’s blood and mother’s love. Now he knows himself to be less human than he’d believed. In this body, the fear for Kagome mingles with his physical discomfort and anxiety about his ability to protect them all, amplified beyond all imagining. It’s overwhelming. Inuyasha isn’t sure how humans even function this way; he certainly has no wish to. He wonders how his father, the great Lord of the West, found emotion enough to sacrifice himself for a child yet born, and can’t decide whether to feel gratitude or resentment.

“Her cough’s better. The medicines are helping,” Miroku says. And the balance tips to gratitude, at least for now, this moment; it’s enough that he exists because without him she is so desperately fragile. It’s enough to play guardian, because if there’s anything these hours have taught him, it is that while he loves her the only way he knows how, he will never be human enough to feel the way she wants him to. And he grieves for a happy ending that he would never have lived to see, anyway.

“Kagome is recovered enough to understand if you would be more comfortable outside the confines of the village.”

Inuyasha sneaks a slideways glance at the monk, but Miroku is gazing straight ahead, face set in serene lines – his I’ve-just-groped-Sango-and-she’s-going-to-hit-me face, as Inuyasha has privately dubbed it. It would be simplest to leave it at this, but in this form, the words come spilling out before his brain catches up.

“It won’t matter. When I’m hanyou again – I don’t feel things the way humans do. It doesn’t hurt,” he says. “I know I’m not what she needs. It’s just being human, all these feelings. I”ll be okay once I get this damn sutra off.”

“If it didn’t hurt . . . you would have no reason to remember it between changes.” Miroku regards him solemnly, and the hint of pity in the look elicits a soft growl from the half-demon. “I know your soul, Inuyasha – Kagome knows your heart. And we would both follow you to the edge of the world if you asked it of us. Perhaps that makes us fools. Or perhaps – you are more than you have ever been given the chance to become.” He pauses, and at last gives voice to a truth he’s always known: “You could have let us die – Sango and I. It would have been safer for Kagome to go home to her time, and the distance would have been no object to you. You choose to save us all, at no small cost to yourself.” The monk eyes Inuyasha’s bare feet, toes already turning black from the bitter cold. “You’ve hurt for us – killed for us, and that is a different kind of pain. Thrown yourself between us and danger and been gravely wounded for your sacrifice. We assume you realize we would do the same for you if we could. And while we do what we can . . . . we could never shield you the way you do for us.”

“My mother was the only family I ever knew. She died, when I was six.” Inuyasha’s eyes are on the skyline, fingers buried in Kirara’s thick mane. She’s purring; her own attempt to soothe the hurt Miroku can hear in their companion’s voice. “The hate kept me going, for a long time. And after that . . . survival became a habit, I guess. Without Kagome – all of you – to fight for, I’m just another half-rate demon scrambling to steal a piece of the jewel’s power. And trust me, Miroku –” Inuyasha’s eyes are distant – “You wouldn’t have wanted who I was before to have even the tiniest shard.”

Before meeting Inuyasha, Miroku would have considered himself a man of strength, of sense and spirit. And though it would not have occurred to him to say, he thought himself surely the superior of any misbegotten demon spawn. It’s humbling, to compare the whole of himself to Inuyasha – abused, tormented, outcast without any of the benefits of Miroku’s own childhood, shattered though it had been by his father’s death – and find himself lacking.

“Take it off, Inuyasha,” he says softly. But it’s Miroku’s hands who gently unwind the sutra from the hanyou’s wrist, whose breath hisses between his teeth at the blisters beneath. There are other markings too, darker places where the ink seeped through the parchment and left their brand upon his friend’s flesh. He’s seen it before, the shift from this darker shadow to Inuyasha’s true form. This time it’s a quiet thing, the color bleeding out of his hair, eyes lightening to gold. The burn from the spell is fading too, but Miroku catches a glimpse of his own writing still stark on golden skin, before Inuyasha conceals it beneath the sleeve of his haori.

“When I’m full demon . . . I do remember, Miroku. Who you are. Who I am. That’s why you can never trust me with the jewel. Because I do remember, but in that body -- I just don’t care.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “And even when it hurts, I never want to look at Kagome again and feel nothing.”

Miroku closes his eyes. Nothing he can say or do will ever fully take away the fear in Inuyasha’s eyes, perhaps rightly so. But a threat, however dire, is only that – not inevitable.

“More than human, than demon . . . we are each the sum of the choices we make. That is what I was taught; that my father’s fate did not have to become mine.” He stares down at the beads that cover his palm, and imagines for just an instant, that the air above the kazanaa stirs in silent mockery. “I never believed it. I set out, not to combat my destiny, but in search of vengeance upon the creature who had cursed me to it. Somewhere along the way, I found myself preparing for a future I never expected to have. Because, Inuyasha, even when I have faltered, you have not.”

“I slept, Miroku, and woke to a time even more full of monsters than the one I left. But I’ve seen Her future, and there’s no place for monsters there. I don’t think I’m going to die before this is all over, houshi. I pray to. Because otherwise, somewhere down the line, she’s going to leave me behind.”

 

 

Was a long and dark December  
From the rooftops I remember  
There was snow, white snow

Clearly I remember  
From the windows they were watching  
While we froze down below

When the future's architectured  
By a carnival of idiots on show  
You'd better lie low

If you love me  
Won't you let me know?

Was a long and dark December  
When the banks became cathedrals  
And the fog, became God

Priests clutched onto bibles  
Hollowed out to fit their rifles  
And the cross was held aloft

Bury me in armor  
When I’m dead and hit the ground  
My love's opposed but unfolds

If you love me  
Won't you let me know?

I don't want to be a soldier  
Who the captain of some sinking ship  
Would stow, far below

So if you love me  
Why'd you let me go?

I took my love down to violet hill  
There we sat in the snow  
All that time she was silent still

So if you love me  
Won't you let me know?

If you love me,  
Won't you let me know?


End file.
